


BAD DRAGONS

by gutza1



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: An Empire That Could See Forever, Anachronisms, Author Lacks Understanding of Medieval Logistics, Blatant Out-of-Character Moments, Crossbows are Guns, Dorian is the Only Sane Man, Evidence of the Author's Insanity, F/M, Fantasy Gun Control, Gen, M/M, Magnesium Flares, Parody, Satire of Fandom Tropes, Schizo Tech, This Is STUPID, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Why Did I Write This?, meme magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24339667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutza1/pseuds/gutza1
Summary: It was going to be one of those days, wasn't it?
Relationships: Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas
Kudos: 9





	1. Look Who's Back

It was a bright, cold day on the fourth of Haring, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Or mangy Mabari, which was what Fereldans used for clocks. It was upon hearing the commotion that the world’s most prominent former Grey Warden stood up from the table at which he was just practicing his skill at Extreme Arm Wrestling with five would-be adventurers in search of their first quest, and confidently strode out the door of the seedy establishment, only to be greeted with a horrific stench that made his nostrils explode. Despite it being the middle of the day, it was so cold that the population was disposing their waste into the street at a breakneck pace in order to supply the hastily-made flaming piles of shit that were being lit all over the city to provide much-needed warmth. Alistair sighed, holding his nose.

It was going to be one of  _ those  _ days, wasn’t it?

Alistair continued down the alleyway, barely avoiding the fresh bucketful of waste that a resident upstairs was dumping. Then, he rounded a corner, and found himself staring out into the Denerim market square. The cityfolk had built their greatest shit pile yet, and it was blazing with what felt like the heat of a thousand suns. The square was packed with cityfolk who blocked the King’s way. “Well,” he thought, “at least all that level grinding will come in handy.” Alistair activated his Juggernaut ability - he’d been rushing down the Weapon and Shield tree - and plowed through the crowd, each smallfolk being easily swept aside. He managed to make it fourth fifths of the way to the other side before he ran out of Stamina and had to push through the crowd to the palace. Once he emerged, he looked at the ground to find the telltale trace of the fondue pipeline. His servants had to tear up all of Denerim’s roads to install it, and now, it would save him a few minutes. He followed it all the way through the streets, dodging more buckets of waste along the way, until he finally reached the welcoming gates of the Royal Palace. Alistair sighed in relief as he waltzed in. This ordeal had just given him a brilliant new idea that he  _ had  _ to share with the Queen. Getting cleaned up would come later.

It had been only ten years since his coronation, and he had already freed the city elves, made peace with the Dalish, cured the common cold, and invented both the steam engine and the game of cricket. Of course, these achievements had been just hobbies that distracted him from his one true passion. As was painfully aware to anyone with a brain, Alastair loved cheese. Ever since he was a wee lad and his surrogate mother had dangled morsels of cheddar from a string attached to his cradle, just out of reach, to make him miserable, Alistair’s entire life revolved around the stuff. Upon being proclaimed king, his first edict was to install a fondue fountain in every alleyway in Denerim, a plan that was curtailed only after the builders remembered how the cityfolk disposed of waste. Every day, he’d spend hours in his study, contemplating what kind of new flavor he could introduce into old Redcliffe cheddar. Sure, his advisors and his long-suffering wife complained about it, but Alistair knew they were just whiners who were holding back his genius anyway.

Alistair marched through the hallways of the Denerim palace, so engrossed in his plans that he casually passed by three fondue fountains, a gold Mabari statue, a shield made of Archdemon scales, and very conspicuous bloodstains on the floor without stopping. He only stopped when he almost tripped over the still-warm corpse of a servant, blood gushing from the gaping wound on her neck. Alistair groaned. Zevran was probably playing one of his pranks again. That damn Crow just loved to get on his nerves. Come to think of it, where were the servants or guards? He hadn’t seen a single one since he entered the building. Well, yet another thing to bother Eamon about. Alistair shrugged his shoulders, then marched up the stairs to the residence.

Alistair wandered into his private bedroom, only to put his foot into a strategically placed claw trap. Surprised, he looked up to see his wife. His beautiful Cousland, the Warden who united Ferelden while somehow being pregnant with his triplets and slew the Archdemon by crying for hours about her parents. The Queen, whose icy blue eyes sparkled like limpid tears and was wearing a breathtaking puffy lapis dress with about thirty perfectly cut diamonds set into it. The Queen, who was currently tied to her chair, while the last man Alistair thought he’d seen leered at him.

“Loghain?!”

The raven haired knave laughed coldly.

“Well, well, well! It appears you are even stupider than I expected! The King of Ferelden, strutting into the palace that my forces stormed in about thirty minutes, not bothering to notice!”

Alistair sputtered while he struggled to free himself from the trap. Unfortunately, he never put any points into his Perception skill.

“Wh-wh-wh-”

“Has a cat gotten your tongue,  _ boy _ ?”

“You-you were dead!”

“Yes.”

“I sliced your head clean off!”

“And? Nothing a good regeneration potion couldn’t fix. I’ve suffered worse when I was fighting against the Orlesians.”

“Is this real, or is this yet another cheese dream?! I knew I should stop eating so late…”

Loghain chuckled.

“Oh no, all of this is very much real.”

Alistair paused while trying to sort out his emotions.

“...what’s the whole point of this, anyway?”

Loghain growled.

“Isn’t it obvious?! This is a coup, and I’m restoring proper leadership to the Kingdom of Ferelden!”

“Right.”

“Enough with this idiot and his useless chatter! Guards, throw the hostages into the cheese cellars!”

Alistair was thrown to the ground as Loghain’s greatsword-wielding guard charged at him with a strategic Pommel Strike. Another came and grabbed his pleading wife, chair and all, and dragged her to the door, while the first guard dragged Alistair off, his leg still caught in the claw trap. They marched him all the way down the stairs, then took a right turn. Before them stood a fancily decorated door with the sign “Royal Cheese Cellar - Absolutely No Trespassing Allowed On The Pain of Defenestration.” The guards threw open the doors, and Alistair got a whiff of his life’s work. He felt strangely comfortable with this. The guard grimaced in disgust.

“You really smell like shit, don’t ya?”

“Funny story about that, actually,” Alistair replied.

The guard groaned before he and his comrade threw Alistair and his wife down the stairs. They landed on a gigantic wheel of Redcliffe cheddar, right as the door shut ahead of them. His wife turned to Alistair, pleading for help.

Alistair thought about cheese.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journey begins here. This chapter was mainly supposed to parody fandom tropes around Alistair, as well as fanfic Wardens. I noticed that a lot of the fandom portrays Alistair as either a total idiot or the God-King of Ferelden whose rule is perfect in every single way, so I decided to combine the two. The... unique portrayal of the Warden is a parody of how badly-written Origins fanfics turn a female Cousland into a perfect princess in a fairy tail romance with Alistair, while at the same demeaning her abilities as a Warden. Naturally, I decided to parody this, with the Warden's description being a reference to the infamous Harry Potter fanfic My Immortal. As for miscellaneous notes, the title is a reference to a German comedy film, Er ist Wieder Da (English: Look Who's Back), which is about Hitler coming back to life in modern day Germany. Draw conclusions from that as you will.


	2. With Friends Like These...

Hawke was late, as always. It wasn’t his fault, of course. The moment he had stepped out the door, no less than six sellswords fell down from the perch above and tried to turn him into bloody bits. They ended up falling on their own swords instead, but it was the gesture that counted. A normal person would have thought, “it’s going to be one of _those_ days, isn’t it?” But for Hawke, every day was such. Hawke continued down to Hightown’s market square. Along the way, he accidentally stepped in a spike trap left by thieves. 

“Well,” Hawke said, “what a perfect time for blood magic!” Hawke consumed the blood splatter from the previously mentioned sellswords to incinerate the trap in demonic hellfire, before heading on his way. Hawke arrived at the square and was shopping for fresh eggs when a Qunari mercenary crashed through the tent and crushed the merchant’s flock of chickens underneath his bulk. “Like clockwork,” muttered Hawke, as the oxman struggled to regain his footing before leveling his spear at Hawke.

“A Qunari. How quaint. Isn’t it a bit too late for you to be trying to kill me?”

“The eggheaded one paid good money for your head, _bas_!” shouted the Qunari as he charged Hawke. Hawke slit his palm and channeled his blood to crush the Qunari’s skeleton with a force prison. 

“Well, that’s another skull to add to my collection.”

Having finished his errants and realizing that he had a meeting to attend to, Hawke descended the stairs to Lowtown. Right as he was nearing the bottom, a gang of slavers burst from the sewer gratings next to him. Hawke slashed his arm with a knife before incinerating the slavers with a blood magic-fueled fireball. Hawke then traveled through Lowtown until he reached the Foundry district. As he entered it, Uncle Gamlen jumped out from a strategically placed crate.

“There you are! You can’t flee from your family obligations forever, _boy_!”

Hawke paused for a moment, as he struggled to come up with a sufficiently snarky answer. Eventually he settled on “funny you say that, Uncle.”

“My gambling debts won’t just go away, you know.”

“Goodbye,” said Hawke, as his eye glowed blue and he flung Gamlen all the way back to his hovel. 

When Hawke finally barged into the _Hanged Man_ , fifteen minutes late for his appointment, a rabid Mabari pounced on him.

“Oh for fu-” Hawke began, before quickly changing his tune. He levitated the beast off of him, then drained its lifeforce. It fell to the ground, a withered husk. A familiar voice, filled with spite, called from a nearby table.

“Blood magic on a wild beast? Truly, your weak-willed nature is astonishing.”

Hawke marched over to the table. Fenris gave him a glare that would have ended Hawke’s life if looks could kill. 

“Well, I suppose you’ll want a formal apology for my lateness, but I think the usual story is very much sufficient.”

Varric, who was also sitting next to Hawke, finally piped up.

“Attacked by bandits yet again? Honestly, it’s like the criminal underground of Kirkwall hasn’t learned a single lesson from dealing with you.”

“Well, you know what they say about the true definition of insanity,” Hawke replied. The group was interrupted when an obviously Tevene mage with a flamboyant pearl robe walked through the door. Upon seeing him, Hawke could barely suppress the irritation that was swelling up from his heart. What could that overly pretentious fop want now-

“Apologies for my late arrival, gentlemen,” said Dorian. “The pedestrians of Lowtown are an absolute _nightmare_ at this time of day. Honestly, if I had known that navigating the streets of Kirkwall was such an ordeal, I would have taken a detour through the sewers. The rats certainly seem to be less obstructive.” Hawke pushed down his rage and gave Dorian a weary smile. “Well, it’s not so bad once you get used to it. The trick is to dress like a slaver so people give you a wide berth.” Dorian frowned. 

“That’s not exactly an… endearing image.”

“It definitely has its own charm, though.”

Dorian cleared his throat.

“Well, I’m sure this conversation is quite fascinating, but we have far more urgent matters to discuss.”

“Yes,” Fenris replied, “the mission.”

“The Chantry contacted me via sending crystal. They said they require your services for a task of utmost importance, and I am to accompany you.”

Hawke continued with a fake smirk. “Well, this sounds like an entertaining road trip. What’s the deal?”

“The Chantry believes that Solas is implementing the final stage of his plan to tear down the Veil and drown all of Thedas in wraithfire. Only it appears that he now goes by ‘Salos.’”

The rest of the table burst into laughter.

“ _Salos_?,” questioned Varric. “Isn’t that literally just ‘Solas’ spelled backwards? What was Chuckles thinking?”

“I can’t speculate on his motives,” said Dorian, “but it appears he is taking a far more active approach. Just recently a legion of Tevinter soldiers reported that they were attacked by a twelve foot-tall giant elf accompanied by a pack of wolves. They said he… launched a barrage of Fade meteors at them before disappearing.”

“That’s quite a claim, Sparkler,” replied Varric. “Turning into a twelve foot-tall giant and burning destroying entire armies in broad daylight? It sounds like you’re talking about the wrong elf entirely.” “Yes,” replied Dorian, “but the Divine herself swears it is true. Sometimes I wonder if this entire world is slowly descending into madness.” “Tell me about it,” said Hawke. “As for your mission, the Chantry has intelligence that Solas, I mean, _Salos_ is present in Orlais and is searching for an artifact of some kind in Val Royeaux. However, he has left behind his precious Red Lyrium idol in Tevinter, with his agents. We believe it is guarded in an abandoned manor in the center of Minrathous by seven of his most elite servants, a group of elves who call themselves the ‘FEnedhis Lhasasha Teldirthalenanen,’ or F.E.L.T. for short.” 

“Wolf penis-sucking fools,” said Fenris. “That is the literal translation.” A few moments of awkward silence passed. “The Chantry requests that you raid their mansion and retrieve the Idol. The fate of all of Thedas may be at stake.” Hawke could no longer hold in his rage.

“OKAY, LISTEN YOU FUCKING SNOB-NOSED PRICK, IT’S BECOME JUST SO OBVIOUS THAT YOU’RE MAKING THIS SHIT UP AS YOU GO ALONG. ‘SALOS?!’ ARE WE SERIOUSLY SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE THAT THE DREAD WOLF NOW GOES BY ‘SALOS?’ HOW STUPID DO YOU THINK WE REALLY AR-”

It was at that moment that a squadron of the Fandom Mafia burst through the walls, and Hawke realized what a terrible mistake he had made. Ten years ago, he signed a contract with them that required him to pick the snarky dialogue option at every possible opportunity, and for ten years, he had been holding in his resentment about it. The squadron shouted at Hawke, “ATTENTION, GARRET HAWKE, WE HAVE DETECTED A VIOLATION OF YOUR CONTRACT! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. IF YOU CHOOSE A NON-SNARKY DIALOGUE OPTION ONE MORE TIME, YOU WILL SUFFER THE FULL BRUNT OF OUR WRATH! OH, AND BY THE WAY, THAT SALOS STUFF IS 100% REAL, AND YOU NEED TO GO TO TEVINTER TO SAVE THE WORLD. JUST WARNING YOU.” With that out of the way, the Fandom Mafia marched out the door. Another awkward silence fell before Hawke spoke up. 

“Well then, now that mess is out of the way, I think we should pack our bags. It’s quite a long way to Tevinter.” “Not quite as much as you would think,” replied Dorian. “I have bargained with Xenon the Antiquarian to grant us use of his absurdly convenient Kirkwall-to-Minrathous eluvian. Oh, and we’ll also be bringing Merrill along. I believe her skillset will be quite useful for this mission.”

“Very well,” said Hawke. While the rest of the group prepared to leave, he pondered this mission. Perhaps he could get something out of it after all. He grinned wickedly, his anger faded. This day was already turning out better than he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, the whole premise of Solas turning into "Salos" is a reference to an obviously fake leak for Dragon Age 4 on 4chan, called "Dragon Age: Retribution," where the twist of Solas becoming a twelve foot-tall giant that launches a swarm of meteors at a Tevinter army and changing his name to "Salos" is presented as something we're supposed to take seriously. And yes, the name of "the F.E.L.T." is referencing exactly what you're thinking of.


	3. The Dismal Dungeon

It was only half an hour since Salos had broken into the Grand Necropolis in search of his stolen idol, and he was already about to explode. The corridors of this forsaken place stretched endlessly on, twisting in ways that defied the laws of physics with each extra foot. Obviously it had been built just to spite him, and he looked forward to the day when the cleansing ether of the Fade would level it.

His devoted partner disagreed. “~~Ooooooooh, pretty,” remarked Palafena Lavellan as she observed a fresco. The sight of it made Salos’ blood boil even further. The Necropolis was filled with ridiculous ornate decorations designed only to stroke the egos of the pathetic fops that ran Nevarra. Endless walls of dressed up men and dancing skeletons that bled into each other to a point where only a lonely art history nerd with no life could tell them apart. Speaking of which, Kendric was asleep at his post again. 

“THE FACT THAT YOU DERIVE EVEN A SMIDGEN OF PLEASURE FROM THESE SHALLOW DISPLAYS OF PRIVILEGE DEEPLY DISAPPOINTS ME, LAVELLAN. FIVE MORE LASHES FOR YOU TONIGHT.”

“UwU,” said Lavellan, if facial expressions somehow were words. “Spank me harder, _hahren_!”

“ENOUGH. YOUR ENTHUSIASM IS STARTING TO GRATE ON MY NERVES. BUT ANYWAY, IT IS A FACT THAT THIS ABOMINATION OF A BURIAL GROUND IS YET MORE PROOF THAT THE MASS OF STINKY APES THAT IS HUMANITY IS NOTHING BUT A MISTAKE, AND I LOOK FORWARD TO WHEN THE CLEANSING EMERALD JUICES OF THE FADE POUR OVER THIS EDIFICE, SO WE CAN REPLACE IT WITH SOMETHING ACTUALLY WORTHWHILE, LIKE A SPIRIT CAFE OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT.”

Technically, the Grand Necropolis was already a spirit cafe, but Salos didn’t care. The group moved past the obnoxious art pieces and found their way blocked by a wall. At the center of the wall was built a mirror, surrounded by three skeleton carvings that were wrapped around the mirror in a vaguely erotic manner. Salos sneered at the sculptor’s necrophiliac tendencies, then peeked into the mirror.

(Art by Ghil Dirthalen)

“BEAUTIFUL,” thought Salos. “THIS IS WHAT PEAK GODLY DOMINANCE LOOKS LIKE.” He was interrupted when one of the carvings spoke.

“Have you taken your daily dose of calcium, brother? Without it, your bones will-” Salos had enough. He tore open a portal to the Fade and pulled out a flaming meteor, then threw it into the wall. The spirits bound into the carving shrieked as the Fade meteor pulverized the wall, revealing the other end of the hallway. “I HATE THOSE RIDICULOUS RIDDLE GUARDIANS THE ANDRASTIANS KEEP BUILDING. THE IDOL HAD BETTER BE NEARBY.”

Salos and co. traveled further down the hallway, passing by a row of skeleton statues possessed by spirits that were bound and made to play obnoxiously loud trumpets. The Nevarrans called it the Vast Doot. Salos just called it torture. He incinerated the statues, their spirits fleeing and further damaging the Veil in the process. Once the task was complete, Salos proceeded to a fork on the road. The group took the left path and found themselves traveling through a circular hallway that endlessly looped around itself. It was when Salos decided to turn back that the floor gave way beneath them. The group plummeted down through the Necropolis, bouncing between the walls of the chute and hitting spikes, spikes, and even more spikes before hitting the bottom, which consisted of a shallow pool of water covering yet more spikes. Fortunately, a convenient shield spell from Salos had saved them a gruesome demise. Salos rolled his eyes. Spike traps. How utterly uncreative. All the Chantry had done was bringing him closer to his target. Salos looked around at the room. In front of him, past the spike trap, was a massive pile of bones, and beyond that, a door. Salos realized that the Chantry put in what was obviously a boss fight. His suspicion was confirmed when he heard a voice, that of a spirit, cry out.

“WICKED BEAST IN THE SHAPE OF A MAN! YOU DARE THREATEN THE WORLD WITH YOUR DREADFUL SCHEMES!” Salos sighed. Of all the spirits they could have chosen to guard this place, they had picked the most obnoxious of them all. “VENGEANCE,” started Salos. “I NEVER THOUGHT YOU WOULD COOPERATE WITH THE MAGE-REPRESENING, ANDERS-TORTURING CLERICS ON ANYTHING.”

“FUNNY STORY ABOUT THAT, ACTUALLY. THE CLERICS SENT A CURIOUS SPIRIT IN THE FORM OF A BOY TO TALK TO ME ABOUT MY FEELINGS. AFTER ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES, HE MANAGED TO CONVINCE ME THAT THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY IS ACTUALLY MY FRIEND. BESIDES, IT WOULD BE UNJUST IF THE ENTIRE WORLD WAS DROWNED IN SPIRITS.”

“HOW CONVENIENT,” remarked Salos, “AND REPULSIVE. CHARACTER DERAILMENT IS THE ONLY WORD THAT CAN DESCRIBE IT.”

“YOUR BREED OF KNAVE IS ALWAYS GOING ON ABOUT HOW EVERYTHING THAT DOESN’T FIT YOUR LIMITED WORLDVIEW IS CHARACTER DERAILMENT,” replied Vengeance. “BUT ENOUGH OF THIS TOMFOOLERY. YOU HAVE TRESPASSED ON THESE GROUNDS FOR FAR TOO LONG, AND NOW YOU MUST MEET YOUR END!”

The bones that Vengeance was possessing clittered as they took the form of an enormous skeletal dragon, with an additional set of spikes on its back to make it look cooler. Vengeance lumbered towards Salos, mouth agape and filling with soulfire. Salos merely smirked. Vengeance had been focused on the two elves, and had completely forgotten about the third member of their party. Sandal stepped out of the shadows. But that was not the Sandal that Vengeance knew. Salos had found the boy trespassing on _his_ Vir Dirthara, and promptly killed him for it. But not wanting this life to go to waste, he reanimated Sandal’s skeleton with his spirit, and recruited him into his roster of minions. Thus, he was given a new name: “Sandal After Not Escaping SaloS.”

Or S.A.N.E.S.S., for short.

S.A.N.E.S.S.’ empty eye socket burst into blue flame as the skeletal fighter levitated Vengeance off the ground. “WH-WHAT IS THIS WITCHCRAFT?!,” shouted Vengeance. “Disenchantment!,” shouted S.A.N.E.S.S. “You want to have a bad Tom?!” He slammed Vengeance on the floor, on the wall, and on the ceiling, each attack dislodging more and more bones from his opponent’s form. Finally, with a final wave of his skeletal hand, Vengeance came crashing to the ground, his form completely falling apart. In the center of what had once been a giant monster, now stood only a crimson wraith that took the form of an armored knight. “YOU-NO, THIS CANNOT BE! I AM VENGEANCE! DEFENDER OF THE MEEK AND DISPOSSESSED!,” shouted the spirit. “ADMIRABLE IDEALS,” replied Salos. “NOW GO BACK AND SHARE THEM WITH YOUR SPIRIT FRIENDS.” Salos tore open a Fade rift, and blasted Vengeance with an arcane missile barrage, forcing him through before closing the rift. With the guardian spirit gone, the door ahead of them opened.

The party entered into a spacious room. At the opposite wall, they spotted an inactive eluvian, and in front of it, a small pillar that was built to contain an artifact of magical power. However, that artifact was nowhere to be found. “CURSES!,” shouted Salos. “THEY MOVED MY PRECIOUS IDOL SOMEWHERE ELSE AND FED ME FALSE INFORMATION ABOUT ITS WHEREABOUTS. I KNEW I COULDN’T TRUST THOSE DALISH SPIES. AMATEURS, ALL OF THEM!”

“It’s okay, _hahren_ , I’m sure those Chantry people just moved the idol someplace else,” said Palafena. “YES,” replied Salos. “WAIT A SECOND. THAT ELUVIAN THERE - I’M SURE THEY USED IT TO MOVE THE IDOL IN THE FIRST PLACE.” Salos sighed. This mission just got more complicated. He walked up to the Eluvian and said the magic codeword - “ENGAGE CHEVRONS.” The eluvian flickered to life, and the party stepped on through.

* * *

In an antechamber deep inside the Grand Cathedral of Orlais, Divine Victoria sat at her desk, fondling her favorite nug. “You’re such a cutie, Schmooples II, oh yes you are-” Suddenly, Cassandra Pentaghast burst in, wearing a metal miniskirt. The Divine sighed. “Sister Cassandra, what have I told you about using proper etiquette? My instructions were that you are always to knock before entry.”

“Your holiness,” grumbled Cassandra,”there is no time to waste. We have reports that… ‘Salos’ has found the Grand Necropolis eluvian and is now somewhere in Val Royeaux.”

“That is quicker than I expected,” replied the Divine. “We will have to move our forces into position quickly, so the bait can be laid.”

“We will rally the soldiers at once,” replied Cassandra. “Oh, and don’t forget to bring those… ‘flares’ that the alchemists have just unveiled.” Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “I was hoping you would not remember those,” she replied.

It looked like she had quite the task ahead of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updates. I had major health issues that sapped my focus, and I only got something to mitigate them recently. To make up for it, I'm publishing two chapters today.
> 
> As for references, Cassandra wearing a miniskirt parodies her attire in Dawn of the Seeker, an infamously ridiculous Dragon Age anime movie that was released to promote Dragon Age II in Japan. You can expect more references to it in future chapters. As for S.A.N.E.S.S., well, a simple internet search should make that obvious.
> 
> The characterization of the Inquisitor as a kawaii anime girl parodies the protagonists of badly-written Solavellan fanfics, who often are self-inserts of the authors in question.


	4. Two Hard Men

Ser Cauthrien was teaching her Mabari chess when Loghain burst into the room, a scowl on his face. He marched to the elaborate map-laden table, picked up a fancy miniature, and pretended to actually do something productive with his time. Ser Cauthrien was annoyed.

"My liege, you have been playing with your figures for hours on end. Surely there is something for you to better occupy your time with?"

Loghain scowled.

"I am at an impasse! We may have Ferelden, but that by itself is completely insufficient to supply us for our mission!"

He paused.

"What we need… we need allies, yes. I have heard that there is one individual of great influence who may lend us aid, and be sympathetic to our cause. Yes, I now know what we must do."

Loghain slammed his fist on Ferelden's location on the war table.

"I require an army for a reckoning with the very heavens… find me ONE MILLION MEN!"

His lieutenant gaped.

"Have you gone mad?"

"I am very much sane," he replied. "If the great master George of Martin from beyond the veil could raise tens of thousands from a worthless piece of tundra, then surely you can equip me with this number of soldiers!"

"I-," Ser Cauthien tried to reply.

"Well? Get on with it!," snapped Loghain.

"Y-yes, Ser…"

Loghain's eyes drifted west of Ferelden, to the spine of the Frostback mountains. His destination.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Breach shimmered over Haven as the Sun inched back towards the ground. It was yet another fine day at the Inquisition's headquarters. Well, former Inquisition. These days it went by the name of "Ordenstaat Rutherford." Cullen watched over the peaceful valley. A year ago, demons had been pouring out of that rift in the sky, and everyone thought that Thedas itself was at risk. But then the then-Commander found Greg the Arcane Warrior, a man who could destroy Pride Demons in seconds, and the Breach posed a threat no more with him watching over it. The Inquisitor abandoned the place to go running off with the Dread Wolf, and now all that came out of the Breach was the occasional youthful human woman hailing from a mysterious realm beyond the Fade called "Canada," each claiming to be his greatest fan. Cullen smirked. He had a long day ahead of him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Commander was being fawned over by his harem of fangirls when Loghain burst into the grand hall, flanked by his elite soldiers, clad in imposing ashen-grey armor. Cullen almost spit out the glass of wine he was fondly enjoying.

"Oh for-"

He did a double take when he spotted the intruder.

"L-Loghain?!"

"Precisely," declared Loghain. "Do not ask about my return from the dead, we have far more important matters to discuss."

Cullen stared as Loghain slowly marched towards him, the harem dispersing as Loghain curled his nose in disgust.

"I see you've been… busy, to say the least."

Cullen took a moment to recover from his shock, gathered his composure, then stood up, trying to look impressive.

"Yes, and you will refer to me as the Commander-Rei-"

"Enough!," snapped Loghain. "I have no time for your foolhardiness! I have come here because I am on a mission, and I am in need of your services! To be exact, I require access to the Breach which you control."

"What could you possibly need the Breach for?!," exclaimed Cullen. Loghain sighed. This was going to require some explaining.

"I suppose I will have to give… context to this request. You may be wondering how exactly I could have survived my own execution. Well, here is the truth: I did not. I did, indeed perish, and upon my death, my spirit slipped the bounds of this world, ventured into the Fade… and to what lies beyond! An endless array of realms, worlds, whatever you may call them. And all of them, united by a single, all-powerful force that governs not only the beyond, but this world as well! It is here that my eyes were opened and I understood the truth behind reality. I witnessed… the Narrative."

Loghain paused, letting his words sink in before continuing.

"But at the same time, I sensed a great disturbance in it. I witnessed many other worlds, where the Narrative had been defiled, where legions of decent, caring men screamed in rage at countless betrayals. I saw their anger, was moved by it, and then I understood that our own realm had also been corrupted."

"Do you understand, Commander Rutherford? For years, the Narrative of Thedas has been failing catastrophically, and it is your Champion and your Dread Wolf that is behind it! Once I understood this, I had a mission. Through the power of my hatred, and my rage, I returned to this world to walk among the living, and now, I will be the one to save it."

Cullen didn't know what to think of it.

"Do not be so… ignorant, Rutherford. You know, deep down, that those individuals you knew are not worth saving. You too are a being driven by hatred!"

Cullen knew. Back when he was a Templar, he thought that he was but a traumatized survivor, that he was trying to stand up for the common folk and protect them from evil. But ever since he expressed concern about allying with the mages and the Inquisitor called him a racist bigot, Cullen was a changed man. He realized that he was a fascist through and through. So, when Loghain spoke those words, Cullen couldn't help but agree with them.

"Alright, Loghain, you've got a deal."

Loghain's frown turned ever-so-slightly upward as the two of them walked out of the headquarters. When he exited, he witnessed a sight that made his jaw drop. The entire valley was filled with what appeared to be twenty Denerims worth of people, all clad in ashen-gray armor and black cloaks of leather. Cullen stammered.

"H-how.

"This," Loghain replied, "is the Black League of Gaider. The army that shall restore balance to the Narrative."

"What exactly is Gaider?," asked Cullen.

"You wouldn't understand," replied Loghain. "Now, let us march to the Breach."

Once the two men were beneath the rift, Loghain summoned a hundred of his most elite warriors, clad in the finest diamond-leatherback dragonbone armor he could buy. 

"These," explained Loghain, "are my finest soldiers. I have named them… the Disciples of Pain."

Cullen stifled a chuckle.

"You-you're serious? Is that what they're called."

"Don't be so mocking, boy," snapped Loghain. "The Disciples of Pain is a perfectly fine name, all things considered! I wonder what exactly you have a problem with, that you object to using the name 'Disciples of Pain' so strenuously-"

Cullen couldn't take it anymore. He exploded with laughter, almost falling down on the ground. Loghain simmered with annoyance while the Commander regained his composure.

"The clock is ticking, Commander. We do not have much time left."

Loghain turned to his army. The men had all come because they felt the hatred in every one of Loghain's words, and knew that his cause was just. But their hatred was just an abstraction. It needed to become something more. Loghain motioned towards Greg the Arcane Warrior, who began to cast a spell. The Breach sparked with power. Now, Loghain felt a sea of emotion, and the power that came with it, in his presence. All he had to do was reach out and grasp it. And so he did. A darkness fell upon the valley as the Breach turned crimson red. Its energies flowed across the entirety of Loghain's army, and his soldiers were filled with the power of hate. Once this was complete, Loghain admired his work. They were ready.

"Men, women, and all miscellaneous individuals…," he began. "Our world stands on the edge of the abyss. If we do not save the Narrative from those who corrupt it, we will be forever doomed to live a mad and futile existence! That is why we will march to cast down the Champion, the Dread Wolf, and all those who associate with it! I have seen this reckoning for ages during my death! Today, the Black League of Gaider and its Disciples of Pain shall embark upon a Great Trial, to do battle with the enemies of the Narrative! This is not for Ferelden! This is for the Dragon Age!"

And so, the regent of Ferelden and the Commander marched forth, ready to save Thedas from itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply apologize for the delay. In the past few months I've been busy doing writing for a Hearts of Iron IV mod called The New Order: Last Days of Europe. You can probably see a few references to it in this chapter. To make it obvious, Loghain is supposed to parody all of the people who think that everything after Origins is garbage, and Cullen's portrayal parodies how some people think he's a Nazi just because he's said some harsh things about mages. It also parodies the fact that he has a massive fanbase regardless, which can get pretty weird at times. Finally, the "Disciples of Pain" was one of the original names considered for the Grey Wardens when Origins was under development. I thought it was so ridiculous that I needed to include it in this story somehow.


End file.
